


you, wherever you are

by spells



Series: 18.555 [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Time Skip, also known as kenma in brazil fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spells/pseuds/spells
Summary: “When are you coming to see me?” Shouyou says, and Kenma could cry.There’s another pause; Kenma thinks. “I guess I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kozume Kenma
Series: 18.555 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2032744
Comments: 21
Kudos: 224





	you, wherever you are

**Author's Note:**

> [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6eNxpyyyNPIQZLiOzzNPyR?si=iyH3m4ihRM-5E83Ye_oyDA)

Distance makes the heart grow-

It wasn’t even possible for Kenma to love Shouyou any more in the first place – his heart can’t grow fonder. Being with Shouyou had always been happy times, happy memories, watermelons and sweaty summer hand-holding, hours on the train and the adrenaline of playing against each other, claws and beaks.

Their relationship had always been long-distance. Their relationship had always been making each other playlists to be together from far away, had been Shouyou’s flurries of emojis and random pictures he’d snap of himself and his surroundings during the day, had been Kenma’s constant messages because he always had his phone around, and he’s always thinking of Shouyou. Their relationship had been electric, carried through transmission lines and cell towers, arms stretched out to get better service, refreshing their chatlog to talk more, talk sooner.

It’s just… Twelve hours ahead is a bit more long-distance than four hours on the train.

Loving Shouyou had been unlike anything Kenma had ever experienced before. Loving Shouyou had been a coloured smoke bomb in his chest, dams in his veins generating electricity from his blood, camellia blossoms on his fingertips. Loving Shouyou had been more than he expected, but never more than he could handle, always a jittery, constant feeling that would guide him, pull him right into Shouyou’s arms, to his side, something like flowers in bloom, like butterflies, like rain. Loving Shouyou had taken his heart out of his chest and replaced it with warmth, with comfort. Loving Shouyou… Shouyou had held his hand, figuratively and literally, every step of the way.

Kenma puts on their playlist, the first one,  _ romeo and juliet  _ – collaborative, the title Kenma’s idea, the songs mostly of Shouyou’s addition –, closes his eyes and thinks back. Thinks back to being sixteen, to holding Shouyou’s hands close to his chest while he whispered,  _ “I’ll miss you every day.” _

Kenma’s least favourite hours of the day currently go from nine in the morning until seven at night, with slight variations. Sometimes he likes days until noon, and sometimes they don’t get better until ten or eleven pm. His favourite time of day, on the other hand, is always at night, when his phone rings and he picks it up without checking the caller, picks it up no matter if it’s just your regular voice call or if it’s a request to FaceTime.

He picks it up, and Shouyou’s morning drawl, the raspiness of his voice, make him melt and boil, evaporate.

“Good morning, Kenma,” Shouyou always says, not-yet-chipper, and it always reminds Kenma of waking up next to him, uncertain hands and teenaged brains.

“Good evening, Shouyou,” Kenma whispers back, his chest aching with yearning, like Shouyou’s magnetic, like his gravitational field reaches Kenma even here, eighteen thousand, five hundred and fifty-five kilometres away. (Kenma knows that number by heart. He imagines running all the way to him, imagines chipping away at those thousands, one step at a time. Imagines running, and swimming, and running some more. Imagines crashing into Shouyou’s arms.)

They usually call before Shouyou goes to sleep, too, or in his mid-afternoon, when Kenma’s wrapping up his stream. If they haven’t, then Shouyou will take his wake-up call to talk to Kenma about what he did the day before, speak a little bit of Portuguese, tell him about little sightseeing adventures he goes on when the weather’s too gloomy for beach volleyball. Kenma could listen to him for hours. Kenma could just listen to him, quietly, all the time, just let him speak and speak and speak. Kenma dreads his “I have to go, now” and misses him like he’s straining for oxygen when he’s away, like he’s been left without a lifeline.

Kenma changes his stream schedule a bit, sometimes starting it earlier and sometimes ending it later, just to see Shouyou’s username in the chat, just to read his messages and feel a little closer. He misses so much, so many different things, but God, does he miss being in Shouyou’s arms and playing on his PSP, on his DS or on his phone. 

“It doesn’t feel like we’re twelve hours apart,” Shouyou says, at one point, his face pixelated on Kenma’s phone but lit up warmly, brightly, by the sun outside. Kenma can see himself on the corner of the screen and his face is blue, lit up by a computer screen and LED lights, the contrast between them so true, so accurate. They truly feel impossibly distant, and yet struggling their way back together. “It feels like you’re just a few hours away, going to sleep a little before I do, waking up a little before I do.”

“I’ve never been a morning person,” Kenma says, like that’s any excuse. Like that’s even a proper answer.

“Your sleep schedule’s not healthy, Kenma.”

“Too bad.” He doesn’t say, changing it would make me unhealthier, would make me miss you even more. He doesn’t say that this is so he can cope with his every day, with a distance that he can’t impulsively cover, since it’s not like he can just buy a train ticket and be with Shouyou the very same day, not anymore. There’s so much he can’t do, there’s so much that’s been stolen from him. He just wants Shouyou back.

They’ve always been all about comfortable silences. Since the beginning, since Shouyou’s first frantic  _ “I think I like  _ like  _ you” _ , they’ve always been impossibly comfortable around each other. To be quiet, to do other things while in the same space, to exist together and that be enough. It was mostly about Kenma’s space, at first, and the way Shouyou was slowly immersing himself in his bubble. It was so much about learning how to be.

Gaps in conversation now make Kenma a little desperate, because they can’t be together all the time, and he wants to make their time last and be worthwhile. In their early-morning calls, when Kenma’s sleepy and his words are even smaller, even fewer than normal, there’s a pause, a moment of looking at the screen, artificial feelings. It’s a bit like a crashing wave, his phone both hot and cold in his hand, glass screen but warm metal. The moon and the tides, he thinks, every bit of himself careening into a mess inside his body.

“When are you coming to see me?” Shouyou says, and Kenma could cry.

There’s another pause; Kenma thinks. “I guess I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

Kenma, a homebody, with his dislikes of travelling and getting out of his comfort zone, has never been so happy to plan a holiday. They call more, text more, talk more to schedule when, where, what. Shouyou’s rants about where he’s gone, pretty places he’s visited, nice food he’s eaten, all turn into I-want-to-take-you-there and you’d-like-it-so-much. Kenma realises, after a few days of planning and talking, that he might not be doing this for himself after all. He hears the buzz in Shouyou’s voice, the excitement, the way he eats up syllables when his words just trample over each other- He’s doing this for Shouyou, maybe even more so than himself.

If Shouyou’s happy, he’s happy too.

As much as he worries, about whether he’ll miss too much school, or if these two workless weeks will affect his income too much, his stock value, or anything at all, every worry seems to dissipate when he brings Shouyou back to the forefront of his mind. He thinks about kissing him again, about the singular softness of Shouyou’s hair, about the texture of his skin and the pressure of his hand against his, and worrying’s impossible. He simply can’t wait.

The airport, the airport in Tokyo that he already knows and is used to, feels like a portal to a whole new world. Kuroo drives him there, drops him off with a smile and a shove, "Send him our best wishes, yeah?" Kenma walks around with his backpack and his phone, hoping Shouyou would just text him back, aware that he's probably asleep, aware that they'll be together soon enough. Kenma keeps refreshing their chatlog, looking at Shouyou's last texts, an  _ i love you so much _ , an _ i miss you so much _ , and one _ i'll see you soon _ . Soon, soon is relative, soon is in over a day – Shouyou had told him about this, complained to him about this, back when he had gone to Brazil, right after graduation, months and months ago. He told him about how he hadn't been ready for the cramps and the soreness, the way his body melded into the plane seats even though connections, the way his head ached and his chest hurt from the dry air-conditioned plane.

Soon is still sooner than it's ever been. Soon is still, in one day they'll touch, in one day they'll meet, in one day Kenma will dive deep into Rio's everything, Rio's weather and traffic and people, because in one day he'll be next to Shouyou to hear all of his words. In one day, he won't have to talk to him on the phone, won't have to hear about his adventures and won’t have to google locations, because he'll be there with him. In one day, in one day...

He spends most of the flights either sleeping or gaming; he doesn't even open his computer, because he has two weeks to spend with the love of his life and he doesn't want to associate a single minute with work, not even now that he's not with him yet. There are probably emails piling up on his inbox, notifications from his manager and the streaming website and school, but he does his best to get them all out of his mind. He does his best to think about the boss he has to fight on the console in his hands, or to think about Shouyou, and Rio. Shouyou's promising him heat and beaches, even if Kenma doesn't like the sun, so he thinks about that. He thinks about touching the caramel, tan colour that Shouyou's skin has been showing on screen, thinks about sunscreen and coconut water, thinks about a tropical paradise and a bustling city.

He keeps his eye on the clock. He boots up his phone at the time he always does, halfway into the flight, because Shouyou must be waking up any time soon. He opens their chatlog again, looks at the  _ i love you i miss you i'll see you _ , and stares and stares until Shouyou's name pops up, the ever-so-familiar incoming call, the one he will never, ever decline.

Kenma plugs his earbuds into his phone and looks. Shouyou's face is always the same, sometimes a little darker when the sun isn't as bright or when it's earlier, sometimes his hair longer or shorter depending on how recently he's cut it, but he's always there. His eyes a little swollen, his face a little pink. He blinks, harsh, and scrapes out his words, "Good morning, Kenma."

Kenma wonders if being a little closer is already affecting him like this. He wonders if it's possible to feel his heart squeezing, his ribs closing in around his lungs, because Shouyou's magnetism pulls him close, pulls him closer. He wonders if the butterflies will come back, a compass, pointing at Shouyou's constant presence. He wonders if, when they're in the same city, in the same room, all over again, they'll still point to him. He wonders if they'll turn tropical, if they'll be mosquitoes or cicadas. Wonders if it'll be just like meeting Shouyou for the first time, all over again.

His heart rushes through the rest of the flight, the connection, the other flight. His heart rushes through the game he's playing, replaying, and he feels energy buzzing in his fingers. He touches the joysticks, presses the buttons to go forward, to open the menu, to change weapons, and yet he feels in battle constantly, he feels adrenaline like a whirlwind in his circulatory system. He looks up, at the small TV screen that shows that tiny little plane entering Brazilian territory, and he thinks he might faint. He thinks he's never felt so much before, endless feelings all at once.

He gets off the plane, picks up his suitcase.

**from: shouyou [13:12]**

kenma i'm getting to the airport!!! if i look tired don't blame me!!!

**from: shouyou [13:27]**

WAITING. LOOKING AT THE GATES

**from: shouyou [13:40]**

YOUR PLANE JUST LANDED. KENMA KENMA KENMA I'M GOING TO SEE YOU AGAIN.

**from: shouyou [13:41]**

i love you so much

**from: shouyou [13:41]**

you have no idea of how much i missed you

**from: shouyou [13:41]**

can't wait to shower you with kisses, kenma

He sees him.

He sees him, he sees him, he sees him.

Kenma's not someone who runs, not someone who exerts himself. He doesn't like to sweat, doesn't like to try too hard, doesn't like the way he can feel his arteries pumping with blood in his neck when he gets a little too amped up.

His mind goes blank when he sees Shouyou. He only doesn't drop his bag and leave it behind because his grip on it was deadly, knuckles white and nails etching themselves into his palm, the only thing to hold onto, and Kenma held on for dear life.

He sees him, buff and tan and everything of brand new that is more familiar to him than anything else. He sees him, impossibly different but still the love of his goddamn life. He sees him, and the butterflies are bumblebees, his stomach hurts, his lungs fill with honey, sweet and syrupy, sticky, thick.

He runs and hugs him, all of his muscles straining to get the most of him, to hold him tighter, to feel him, here, now. To feel every single part of him.

"Shouyou..." Kenma says, and the word tastes like being a teenager again, just like it did when he was sixteen and lost and excited, for once. The word tastes just like it did when he couldn't get that image, of a short scrawny boy with sunset hair and big brown eyes, out of his mind. The word tastes like summer, like love, and like honey. Shouyou doesn't say anything. Kenma can feel him, now, warm tears against his neck. Kenma might be crying, too; he's not sure yet. He's numb, he's feeling everything he’s ever felt, all at the same time. "I'm home."

Kenma's first thoughts on Rio are that he hates it.

Even at two in the morning, the air weighs oppressively upon him, high-pressure, humid, hot. Compared to Tokyo's almost winter, it's like he's just walked into an oven, into a greenhouse, and he can barely breathe. Shouyou says he'll get used to it in a couple of days, that it was even worse when he arrived late-February and could taste the sun on his tongue, on his cheeks. Says that the ocean, cold and unforgiving, helps a lot.

He doesn't get to see much on their taxi home. He doesn't even try to, doesn't look out the window, because Shouyou's hand is against his again and there is absolutely nothing else that he wants to think about right now.

So, yeah, Kenma's first thoughts on Rio are fleeting – they're a groan when he gets out of the airport and starts sweating immediately, but they're immediately suppressed. Shouyou takes his hand, laughs, pulls him towards the first cab he sees, and Kenma couldn't give a damn about Rio right now.

He watches Shouyou closely; all of his lines seem to have gotten sharper, rougher, like all these months were enough to turn him into a man. Throughout all of high school, he'd grown, too, he'd matured like crazy, but this feels different. The other time, Kenma had gotten to watch, had gotten to see something like a slow, gradual change, changes in softness and thickness and strength. The other time, Kenma had mapped his skin like an astronomer, had watched it continuously and tried to unravel its secrets, had kissed it like it was his universe and cherished it like it was his entire world. Now, Kenma looks, and it’s as if he's been blind for all this time. He needs a second, a century, to take it all in.

Shouyou's evidently beefier, bulkier. His jaw's more defined, his neck thicker, his shoulders packed with muscle and his chest tight against his shirt – God bless that shirt, and God bless his unchanging wardrobe, the baggy shirts of a scrawny high-schooler now a good fit on whatever Greek godling of a nineteen-year-old Shouyou is supposed to be. Shouyou's hair's gotten lighter, on top, like it's been sunburnt, the colour something caramel or blonde, something golden, bright. Kenma thinks back to sunset hair, thinks back to blazing clouds and flaming skies, and he likes this very much. He likes the contrast of the soft orange-red tone with the colour of his skin, tanner than he's ever been, looking right, looking like something you'd see in a magazine or in a western movie. The hairs on his arm are golden, blonde, and it’s attractive to the point of unfairness. Attractive, but also bright, hot like the sun, hot like a scorching summer afternoon and standing in brash sunlight for hours on end.

Kenma doesn't care about unpacking, doesn't care about catching up. They get home, and he kisses Shouyou like he's been waiting to do for months, for almost a year. He kisses Shouyou because he doesn't have to hold back, and he never wants to hold back, not anymore. He kisses Shouyou and-

"You're taller than me?"

It's nearly imperceptible; it's not like Kenma has to look up to look at him or reach up to kiss him, but it's still there. They stumble, and Shouyou's lips are a bit above his, his shoulders a bit above his.

"Oh. I guess I am?" Shouyou frowns, smiles. Kenma kisses him again. Kenma wants him, closer, because he can't imagine keeping any distance between them now that the eighteen thousand, five hundred and fifty-five kilometres have been surpassed. He wants to draw new maps, get brand new satellite images, of every inch of Shouyou's skin. He wants to have him, whole, wants to know him all over again. He wants golden syrup, wants caramelised kisses. Wants him.

Kenma drags his lips against Shouyou's skin, presses and pushes in all the ways he knows used to earn him soft exhales and sharp inhales, and finds so many new ones. He kisses mole after mole, like they're stars, like he's making up constellations with curls and swirls. He cups Shouyou's jaw to feel suns burning into supernovas underneath his tongue, his eyes closed and hiding tormenting black holes behind his lids. He feels like he's floating in zero G.

After that is done, after he's explored every mountain of soft skin and tough muscle, after he's tasted every drop of sweat to see if they're as sweet as Shouyou, he turns his attention back to the city. He feels Rio crawling inside him, through his pores; he cards through Shouyou's hair, feels it sticking, sweaty, to the back of his neck. Shouyou's breathing is weak, ragged, and warm on Kenma's bare chest. He's got his eyes closed, and Kenma hasn't watched him fall asleep in so long. If it wasn't so unbearably hot, he'd stay silent, watch him fall and fall into unconsciousness.

But alas, it is quite hot, torrid.

"Is it always this warm?"

"Not this warm, but yeah. You can turn the fan on," Shouyou says, and points weakly at the ceiling.

Kenma hates ceiling fans, and this one doesn't look safer than most. It looks dodgy, the blades too big, the whole situation looking weak and unbalanced. Kenma hates it when ceiling fans sway when he turns them on, feels like they might as well come crashing down and kill him. Kenma likes air-conditioning, and the cold.

He slides out of bed and turns the ceiling fan on. If it wasn't for Shouyou here, against him, if it wasn't for his familiar smell and the constant feel of his skin, the sleepy kisses he presses against any part of Kenma's body his lips touch – the back of his neck, his chest, his forehead, his mouth –, Kenma might not have been able to fall asleep.

He does, though. He's tired, and he's in love; he wanders into his dreams like nothing can ruin his mood. He hopes the next day comes, and he knows things can only get better.

Shouyou’s beautiful. Kenma wonders if this is the same beauty he’s known for all this while, or if this one’s fresh, if this one’s distilled and sizzling hot, flaming asphalt and sunburns.

Rio’s beautiful, too. They take the subway on their way to the beach, and it’s surface level, windows taking in sunlight and the gorgeous, gorgeous view. Kenma can’t stop looking at the city, all the tall, skyscraper buildings and the hills with the favelas. He sees bits of forest, eyes peeled at the sights, feeling foreign like he hasn’t in so long, feeling like a tourist. With the way Shouyou knows this city, too, even if far from native, he feels like he’s invading, like he’s alien, like this place belongs to Shouyou and the indescribable people of this city, and he wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

But then, “I was thinking we could go sightseeing this weekend? Or maybe next week. The spots might be emptier on a weekday…”

Shouyou’s held his hand through everything, of course it wouldn’t change now. He eases Kenma into his new world, into the big smiles of his new friends, his teammate. Kenma sits on the sidewalk and watches Shouyou stretch, wink at him, watches him do it all. Kenma buys coconut water, buys a popsicle, goes out with him to a nearby restaurant to eat what he calls a PF for lunch – rice, but not like they eat it at home, beans, but not like they eat them at home, steak, better than they eat it at home, and a little bit of salad. It's lovely. Shouyou keeps talking, keeps holding his hand, bouncing his feet next to his (Kenma can feel the tips of his flip-flops tapping on the top of his sneakers), speaking a Japanese with little Portuguese words that he's learned, with names that Kenma wouldn't be able to spell, with all of his familiar enthusiasm and excitement. With all that Kenma knows, and wouldn't double-take. All of him.

Even now, Shouyou's familiar. Even all his change is something that doesn't surprise Kenma, in a way; he had expected change, had expected new things, had expected a better player, a more mature player, like pure, raw Shouyou. So of course, of course Shouyou's changed, and of course the change wasn't something Kenma could have predicted, better and more special in all the spots it had to be. Shouyou jumps, receives, even serves like he hasn't ever before. He fumbles, sometimes, too, because that's only natural; he slips on the sand, expecting a floor that wouldn't give out under his feet, or jumps for a receive without expecting a softer ground, a ground that will shift to his body, or serves and the ball goes flying off-court with the wind. He squints at the sun and covers his eyes with his hand.

Kenma watches, though. All of the change, all of the newness. He isn't exactly sure how beach volleyball works, what rules are the same and what circumstances are different, but he starts understanding as the games go on and on. He starts to get it. Shouyou grins after a particularly nasty spike, the ball bouncing even on sand, and Kenma's heart fills with mosquitoes and beetles, a rainforest in his stomach, full of life and greenery and freshness.

God, this is the boy he's always known. This is his high school sweetheart, his boyfriend, his rival and his partner. Shouyou's changed, Shouyou's changed. Kenma still knows his every bit.

Shouyou was right, but also not. Kenma gets used to the Rio weather, gets used to the smouldering heat, gets used to the humidity and the air, and everything else. He gets used to their tiny Airbnb, gets used to the beach Shouyou plays in, gets used to the ceiling fan. The small things turn familiar; he goes with Shouyou to his apartment, at one point, to pick up some extra clothes and everything else he'd forgotten to pack, and the flat doesn't seem odd, doesn't seem new or strange even when he’s never been there before. He greets Shouyou's roommate, the red-faced and wide-eyed Pedro, smiles at him faintly – later, Shouyou laughs, shows him a chatlog of Pedro yelling about  _ how could you bring kodzuken into my home without telling me beforehand! _ Kenma smiles; it's nice to know Shouyou's around nice people. It's nice to feel nice around him.

Everything feels familiar, really, after a few days. They go out shopping, or go out to eat, and while it obviously isn't like going to a restaurant in Tokyo or even Sendai, nothing surprises him anymore. Not the TV in the corner of the bar, and the tables of middle-aged men with beers and decks of cards, not the drawled-out song in Portuguese played live by a long-haired guy in the restaurant they go to, not the crowds of people, none of their faces the same, clothes colourful and fresh and nothing like he'd see in Japan. Brazil is fascinating, Brazil is its own universe. Kenma likes to watch it unravel before his eyes, likes to put together puzzle piece by puzzle piece with the handheld guide that Shouyou is, with the uncertain words that Shouyou offers, the way he scrambles together sentences that Kenma couldn't decode, couldn’t translate for the life of him, but still everyone bends to his every wish, everyone smiles and treats them crazy well, crazy attentive.

On a Thursday, they wake up to the rain pouring, the trees outside droopy with the steel-grey sky, leaves heavy with water and standing still, no wind, just clouds. It's a lovely opportunity to stay inside, really, a lovely opportunity to be together like they haven't really been at all. Sure, they've been together all this time, they've banded together every day to try and push away the emptiness, the loneliness, and the  _ how can I bear to be without you again after this _ , but they haven't just revelled in each other's presence, not like they used to when they were teens, holding each other close by bruised elbows and nimble fingers.

"We don't have to do anything," Shouyou says, sighs, and Kenma kisses a spot underneath his jaw. It's chaste, it's timeless. He's lying on top of him, the ceiling fan spinning slowly on top of them, their shorts hiked up to their thighs and their shirts somewhere on the floor. It's not as warm as it had been, the air isn't burning along with skin, but the rain didn't really make the weather cooler, either. It's a stuffy, suffocating kind of weather, like they're being held hostage inside, like they're wrapped in fumes and smoke. "We don't even have to eat until later."

"You haven't made me any local food, yet."

"I'll make you anything you want," Shouyou says, quiet. He says it like he'll give Kenma the world, like he'll lasso the moon and pull it to them, inch by inch. He's been saying things like that since he was fifteen, since he promised he'd make Kenma feel something, promised he'd make Kenma want to win, or hurt to lose. Now, he says it with confidence; now, he really does hold the world on his shoulders, he has all that strength just waiting to be used. Now, he doesn't doubt himself, he's not just hopeful. All the certainty, hidden underneath his tone, mixed in between his words like salt in water, is something Kenma loves to see, loves to hear.

Kenma hums. Shouyou put on music, earlier, after they woke up and saw the rain. The soundtrack to their day is exquisite, it's raindrops against glass on every window in the apartment, it's slow breathing, almost unnoticeable, more a feeling than a sound, and this quiet, romantic playlist of Brazilian songs that Shouyou sings along to, hums along to, more the melody than the words. It's not the sort of thing Kenma would have expected him to listen to, it's slow, pianos, guitars, recorders, sultry voices and harmonious sounds. When he was a teenager, Shouyou listened to pop, to electronica, filling their playlists with everything upbeat and energetic, bright and fitting with big cheerful brown eyes and soft messy ginger hair. Now, these songs make it seem like he's really mellowed out, like he's a bit more somber, even if they still seem happy – it's a different kind of happiness. It's this sort of self-assured happiness, this optimism, of knowing things will be good in the end. Of being pleased, of feeling pleasure. Of living every single moment and being glad, being thankful, smiling and feeling it in every single one of his bones. This is the new Shouyou, a Shouyou Kenma's watched grow from afar, a Shouyou he has underneath his fingertips and a Shouyou he feels like he knows, he knows, he knows, even if there's so much about him he doesn't know yet.

"This one," Shouyou hums, and Kenma stops analysing him, stops loving him for a second, to listen.

"Mm?"

Shouyou sings along, words Kenma doesn't know, and his hands splay across the span of Kenma’s back, delicate. Kenma wishes he could meld both their skins, wishes he could turn himself into a copy of Shouyou just to be able to feel him, to have him, all the time. "Saudade."

"What?"

"It's a word, in Portuguese. I heard this song, and I couldn't get what it meant – Google Translate said it's like yearning, like longing, like missing someone, but Heitor said it was more than that... Said it was like the love you feel for someone, even when they're far away. It's exactly that sort of love, the love that stays, he said, or something of that sort. I couldn't- couldn't stop thinking about you."

Kenma wishes he could have him whole. Not in a possessive, or a jealous way. He just wishes he could know Shouyou was happy, and loved, all the time. Even if not by him, he just wishes Shouyou could have everything of good, everything of joy. He wishes Shouyou could get, constantly, at least a fraction of all the good he brings into the world.

"I'm still trying to figure it out now, this, like... I guess it's the burning in my chest when we text, or the way I've grown familiar to calling you every day when I wake up, like it's the natural reaction to my alarm.” His voice grows quiet, and his brows are furrowed. Kenma knows he really has worried himself to death about this. “I've thought about it so much, Kenma... I guess it's the feeling in my fingers when I was waiting for your plane to land, like static, or like buzzing, or like- Pressure, like when you feel the water surging through a garden hose, desperate to rush out. There's so much- Kenma, it's like the way you kissed me, when we got home. I could feel it, on your lips, I could taste your words, everything you wanted to say."

Kenma feels like Shouyou's always done that. Shouyou's always kissed him to dig the words out from his lungs, from his stomach, kissed him to feel the flavour of whatever he wants to say. Shouyou always kisses him until his feelings pour out, like he's that goddamn garden hose, the bugs in his stomach nothing but white noise and pressure.

"I know it's going to come back. The saudade. I know you're going to leave, and I'm going to feel stranded here, for a little while. I'm going back to counting the days until we're like this again, until I barge back into your apartment on weekends and make myself at home even when you're busy- I know all of it, and I know that it’s inescapable. When we're like this – I mean, we've always been like this, we've always been long distance, but- Maybe saudade is every single step between you and me. Maybe saudade is the-"

"Eighteen thousand, five hundred and fifty-five kilometres," Kenma says, whispers against Shouyou's Adam's apple. He could bite it out, could swallow it whole. He bets he could lick all the caramel, all the toffee, off of Shouyou's skin, if he just tried hard enough. He could taste sweet and savory and thick, impossibly complex, unendingly tasteful and right.

"Just a couple of inches, now."

Shouyou's voice has always been a smile. It's always been about smiles, it's always been that little change in his tone when his grin widens, when he gets more comfortable. That shift when he laughs, that dip when he giggles, a little quiet, a little special, like something Kenma's found just for himself. Like the x that marks the spot, like the end of the treasure hunt.

"Between our mouths, that is," Shouyou continues, "because I'm pretty sure we're touching everywhere else."

Kenma holds his head above Shouyou's, feels him breathing out of his mouth, feels his breath impossibly weak, subtle, hitting the jut underneath his lower lip, feels the rain in the half-inch, quarter of an inch, between them, now.

He could whisper,  _ thank God _ , could grace whatever force – fate, soulmateship, high school – that kept them together through it all, could bite words into Shouyou's lips, could bang them against his teeth. He doesn't have to, doesn't even get the chance to; Shouyou reaches up and swallows them up.

Leaving isn't half as bad as he expected it to be, nor is being back home without him. It's like they're closer than ever, now, and nothing in this world will allow them to be sad, to be miserable. Being apart has turned into a countdown until they're together again, has turned into memories of touching skin and laughing at a stupid little fly that kept banging on the window when it was open two inches beneath her, has turned into a sort of togetherness that leaves Kenma's organs jumbled, that leaves him crossing out days on his calendar because  _ again, soon, soon, soon _ .

Time flies by, when you mean it to. If you watch closely, it might seem infinite, it might seem never-ending, but if you're just aware, and you're just letting it flow, it keeps on at a steady pace. Time's a river, in this metaphor. Time's not a lake, because time will never stand still, but its current isn't deadly. It's enough for something to drift away, lost, if you drop it, but it won't drag you down, won't take you with it. A day turns into a week turns into a month turns into a year. A little bit more than a year, a little bit more than a year of texts and playlists and Duolingo Portuguese, sneaking a  _ te amo  _ into their conversations to surprise Shouyou, switching goodnight wishes into  _ saudade, saudade, saudade _ . God, how he misses him. How he's happy, ecstatic, that he'll have him back here, underneath his fingertips, where they've been together and where they've known each other, been with each other, before, for years.

Kenma can't stop smiling, can't stop fidgeting, on his way to the airport to pick Shouyou up. He taps the rhythm of a bossa nova against his knees, feels everything in his stomach – butterflies and bumblebees, the stupid little fly, the tall trees that Kenma didn't know the name of but that had leaves shaking with the pouring rain –, a compass, leading him home, safe, sheltered, familiar. Home, home, home. 

The thing is, it's so easy to feel home, now. Shouyou texted him from the plane, texted him  _ I wonder if my Japanese is still passable? Oh my God, Kenma, what if I can't speak Japanese anymore. Kenma, will my mother disown me? If I go back to Brazil, will you come with me?  _ Shouyou switched, switched back and forth into  _ I miss you so much, it's been so long but I feel like we saw each other yesterday, que saudade, te amo, te amo, te amo.  _ (Shouyou said, at one point, that he loved how they could say they loved each other in three different languages, Portuguese and Japanese and a sloppy sort of English. Kenma could've said, at that point, that they definitely could make it more than three if they tried hard enough, because they didn't have to learn an entire language to say I love you, and instead usually just three little words, sometimes less. Kenma didn't say any of that. Kenma said,  _ how fancy of you _ , and Shouyou sent, along with a smiling emoji,  _ are you flirting with me? I'm taken! _ )

Shouyou smells of the beach, and his hair is burnt even blonder than last time. Shouyou smells like salt and sweat and sand, smells like a tropical paradise, smells like a summer dream, smells like a beach volleyball player – sunscreen and ice cooler Gatorade. Kenma doesn't hold him as tight as he did over a year ago, as he did the first time, when he was finding him again, finding him anew, in the airport after the first few lonely, cold months of not having him around. This time around, Kenma holds him just tight enough, certain, not too much pressure because he's flowing, a slow and steady current. He's the ocean and the tides.

Shouyou doesn't hold him tight, either. Shouyou hugs him, soft. Shouyou says, in his smiling, out of breath, honey voice, "I'm home."

They could still stand long-distance. They could still stand calling every day, even if now not every morning: in the same timezone, their difference in sleep schedules makes itself seen. Kenma stays in Tokyo, Shouyou gets scouted to Osaka – they consider moving in together, consider the same apartment just like for those two weeks, consider shelves and blankets and ceiling fans. They wonder if it’s necessary.

"I can go see you on a whim again," Kenma says, on the phone, the glass warming up to his face. He never did tell Shouyou about how he felt like it was unbearable to be twelve hours apart, eighteen thousand kilometres, about how he felt like it was a relationship so impossibly unlike it had been when they were in Nekoma and Karasuno, too far away for sixteen-year-olds. Four hours on the train would have been so close for them now, twenty-somethings, that he barely understands how he could have been so ungrateful.

Kenma can board the train to see Shouyou whenever he feels like it. (Sure, he has school, and work. But he has Shouyou, underneath his fingers. An even stronger, even newer Shouyou, with his maps now adaptable, memory foam. He can touch Shouyou's skin, trace it with his fingers, with his nails, with his lips, and he'll have it all backed to the cloud. He can press his skin against his and he'll be home again, everything about it familiar. Kenma can touch him, and he'll be all that he's always known and never forgotten, all that Kenma's watched change and grow and mature.)

He's getting on the train, in fact.

"I mean," Shouyou starts, slow, and Kenma wants to kiss him. Kenma wants to reach through the screen and grab him by his shoulders, pull him close. Kenma wants to jump through the phone, because three hours on the train are suddenly too much, nevermind over a day of flying and another few days of getting used to the jet lag, to the weather, to the air pressure, to the language. "Your trip to Rio was on a whim, too, wasn't it? We planned it and all, but you decided to go like three weeks before you came- And we didn't even take impulsive trips that much when we were teens. Train rides are expensive, Kenma, have always been-"

There's no ceiling fan in Shouyou's new Osaka apartment, tiny, cramped, filled with trinkets and the smell of eggs in the kitchen. Kenma actually brings it up, says it's no good sleeping with him without the constant noise of the blades whirring, without the constant death threats of the fan spinning, swaying, drawing figure eights against the ceiling, in the air.

"I'll get one installed," Shouyou says, still out of breath, still full of smiles. He pulls Kenma around the flat, shows him his bedroom and his living room, tiny little rectangles of white walls and carpeted floors. "I'll do anything- God, I can't believe you came, you-" Kenma kisses him, and Shouyou sighs into it like he'd been waiting for that to happen. "I hope you come here on a whim all the time. Promise me you will."

"Train rides are expensive," Kenma teases, kisses the corner of his mouth, kisses his cupid's bow. Familiar, constant. Warm.

"Nope," Shouyou closes his eyes, and his false seriousness is betrayed by the huge grin on his face. "CEO of Bouncing Ball. My sponsor. Hey, if you're my sponsor, will you pay for some train tickets I need to get? I swear they're important, Kozume-san, I swear they're reasonable!"

Shouyou kisses him, smiling. It's not that much of a kiss, it's half-hearted and half-done, it's half a kiss, half a joke. Kenma loves it to bits.

"I'll consider it," Kenma says, smiling as well. Holding him tight, the pressure slowly unwinding from his spine, from his neck. “But you’ll need to come and check in often, justify your expenses.”

“Go to Tokyo twice as often…” Shouyou’s embrace loosens, his hands slide to the small of Kenma’s back. He opens his eyes, that familiar glint, those thick long lashes, and his smile’s the size of the moon; his smile’s the moon and the tides, crescent, pearly white. “Sounds like a plan.”

Their love is about-

Transmission lines, and train rides. Their love is about hundreds of pictures in their chatlog, hundreds of megabytes' worth of pictures in Kenma's phone, the fairy lights Shouyou's hung in his room, his new jersey and all the words Shouyou uses to describe it –  _ right now the smell's so-! You know? Fresh. Like it's just been printed. Like it's just come out of the oven _ . Their love is about dancing in the dark, in Shouyou's teeny tiny kitchen, just big enough for the two of them and one step to the side, one step to the other, Kenma's forehead on Shouyou's shoulder, no worries about rules or deadlines or clocks, no worries about the world outside (Osaka's so much quieter than Tokyo).

"This is so sappy," Kenma whispers, drags the fabric of Shouyou's shirt along with his words. He doesn't know this song, doesn't know what it says. Shouyou's gotten so good at Portuguese, says this is a-  _ chorinho? _ He sings along, quietly, a playlist he's compiled of songs that Kenma turns numb, pronouncing the words out of sheer familiarity, no idea of what they mean. There's a bit of everything, there's upbeat and samba, there's modern and acoustic guitars and one, two, three voices. There's that one song- saudade, saudade, saudade. Not anymore. Their love doesn't need any pressure, their love doesn't need yearning, pining, longing. Their love is present from afar.

"What is?"

"Dancing in the dark. Barefoot. In the kitchen."

"Do you not like it?"

Kenma can hear Shouyou's heart. Kenma can smell him, lavender body wash but a neutral soap to wash his clothes, can smell his warmth, his breath.

Kenma could say that he wouldn't trade this for the world. He could say that his complaints come from looking from the outside, come from when he puts his feelings to the side, when he decides that they shouldn't be like this, that this is improper, that they're foolish and young and disgustingly in love. Kenma could say so much, words Shouyou already knows the taste of. Words that taste of embers and smoke, words that taste of treesap and honey. Kenma could go the rest of his life without saying a word, and Shouyou would still know all of them, would still fish all of them out from Kenma's chest, speechless.

"Of course I like it," Kenma says, instead. Of course he does.

Of course he likes all of it, he always has. He likes texting all day, likes droning on about unimportant things and having amicable discussions on everything at ten pm, midnight, when Kenma's procrastinating on streaming and Shouyou's going to sleep. He likes knowing every nook and cranny of Shouyou's. Likes finding new spots, likes finding new things about him and small surprises that make him so eternally interesting. For example, Shouyou likes more salt in his food now than he did before, his tolerance for spicy food has increased, he now dances a little when he's cooking, he thinks he might have to go to an optometrist and get reading glasses, he likes reading non-fiction, he likes podcasts and funny cat videos and soap operas-

"Mm," Shouyou says, his cheek pressed against the top of Kenma's head, and Kenma closes his eyes. Kenma takes a deep breath. "Of course you do."

Their love's about how nothing else matters when Shouyou's games are on the TV, and Kenma stops anything he's doing to watch sports for the first time in years. He watches him win over Kageyama, play against Kageyama for the first time in so long, watches his huge smile and knows the way his heart must be beating so fast, pure adrenaline, joy and power flowing reckless in his veins. He watches him roar at the cameras with his friends, gets texts that go like  _ Atsumu-san told me this really cool joke, Kenma- _ and  _ I didn't think Bokuto-san could even get better at volleyball but Kenma- _ and  _ Kenma am I dirty? Kenma, Omi-san says I should be cleaner and that he'll never go to my apartment, Kenma- _

Shouyou gets scouted into the national team, Shouyou's Japan, Shouyou takes the train to Tokyo and kisses him, half-kisses him, won't stop smiling. Kenma smiles along with him. Kenma feels Shouyou's heartbeat in his neck, in his wrist, in his arm, and thinks his own heart might just catch up, might just get in sync. They go to dinner and Kenma smiles, looks down and hides his face with his hair when Shouyou says, "Hey, training's in Tokyo... No need for trains."

No need for trains, and transmission lines, and morning-evening calls. No need for  _ good morning, good evening. _

Maybe it's surprising that it took them this long to move in together. Maybe it's surprising that they've been together for what, nine years now, and it's always been long distance, it's always been that empty space by Kenma's side. It's always been an ecological succession in his chest, first moss then grass, birds, bugs, trees and now- Now he's his own garden, now he's the entire Amazon. Kenma wonders if it's a problem that they've always been like this, if they'll break up when they do end up living together, seeing each other every day, dealing with each other's every mannerism and bringing up all of their pet peeves-

Kenma should know, Kenma does know, after all this time, after the years of chatlogs and phone calls and playlists, that they're not like that, that it doesn't have to be like that. That through the internet things are still real, people are still present, feelings are still genuine. God, he makes a living out of being on a screen, so he knows, he believes, that they've been just as genuine as anyone else; they have, they truly have. They've loved each other through emojis and memes, loved each other through nasty-angled pictures, loved each other through every failed connection and every system update, loved each other through phones and years and teams, loved each other through the whole world. Through trains and planes and kisses.

Kenma knows. Kenma tells it to himself and they prove it to each other, prove it to the world, even if they owe them nothing.

Kenma's apartment is big enough to fit everything of Shouyou's for months. Kenma's apartment is big enough for the two of them, big enough for all the feelings and the way Shouyou calls out, from the kitchen,  _ do you want chicken or fish? _ They have the space they need for Kenma to go to sleep when Shouyou's waking up, and for the two of them to nap together after lunch. They have the space they need for all of Shouyou's jerseys, for his volleyballs and his vinyl records, and the space for all of Kenma's wires, his hoodies, his posters. They make up space, they find space. Shouyou laughs at the ceiling fan Kenma had installed into his, their, bedroom, when he got back from Brazil. Shouyou laughs at Kenma's chat, pops up on the background or on the other side of the camera while Kenma's streaming, winks at him on his way to practice and threatens him with hugs and kisses when he comes home, sweaty, sticky, his skin a faded tan and his hair growing long, curling around his neck –  _ how do you look good no matter how _ , Kenma asks, to get a  _ things I pick up from you, Kenma. _

They have the space for engagement rings and tears and promises. They have the space for champagne to stain their carpet, for their friends to barge in, and for Shouyou to promise him gold. They have the space for the past and the present, and for a future bright and infinite like the morning sun, like stars or freckles. They have the space for-

Shouyou comes home from a meeting; Shouyou comes home late at night. Shouyou comes home and Kenma's on the couch, Kenma smiles when he sees him, polo shirt and all, his eyes a little too wide, his stance a little too stiff.

Kenma raises an eyebrow.

"Cuddle?" He asks, opens his arms a little, and Shouyou walks dizzily to the couch as soon as his coat and shoes are off. Shouyou flops on top of him, hides his face in his chest, but Kenma doesn't feel him shift, both of them standing absolutely still. His eyebrows are still shot up, his mouth is still a line, expressionless, stunned, sad, scared-

"Kenma," Shouyou says, raises his head. He's frowning, or not, or he's begging, his eyes are shining, and Kenma's panicking, a little too scared, a little too attached to everything. A little too used to the ring on his finger, to the absence of phone calls, to falling into an already-warm bed, to crawling into Shouyou's midnight arms. "You know how... I wasn't sure where I'd go? Now, that my contract with the Black Jackals is over, and the Olympics are through, and- And everything?"

Okay, not sad, not sad, right? Kenma digs through Shouyou's eyes, searches desperately in them, clawing through wet soil with his hands, not caring about dirt underneath his fingernails, this is the x that marks the spot, this is his treasure, his most treasured. He nods; he wants Shouyou to keep going. He doesn't even know why he'd stop.

"I think I might've- Scored. A big one. But, um, I need to know how you feel. What you want to do. Because we're us, always, okay?"

"Obviously," Kenma says, doesn't even know why Shouyou's saying this, what, or who he's trying to reassure. Himself, probably; always himself.

"No way you'd move to Brazil with me, right?"

"You've never left Tokyo," Kuroo says, plays with his empty soju glass, twirls it around. His tie is loose around his neck, his suit jacket is on the back of his chair. He won't look Kenma in the eyes; Kenma knows it's not in a bad way, knows Kuroo's not angry. More than anything, he knows distance doesn't hurt, distance doesn't diminish anything. Distance doesn't change a thing. "You've always... God, Kenma, how many years has it even been?"

"Gonna be twenty next year."

"Twenty years of- Christ. Twenty years of you, always. The two of us, always, the two of us against the world- Through all my relationships, through you and Shouyou, through junior high and high school and uni and-" Kuroo takes a deep breath. Kuroo lets go of his glass, falls back into his chair. He looks at Kenma, his eyes a little sad, a little happy. His eyes are Kuroo, cinnamon brown, nothing like Shouyou's, but familiar all the same. "And now you're leaving."

"It's not like I'm happy to go," Kenma shrugs, looks at the clear liquid in his own glass. He wishes he could see his own reflection, wishes he could take a moment to see himself and see how much of himself he recognises. Until when was he aloof, until when could he not be reached? How much has he changed, how much has Shouyou changed him, how much of the years' wear and tear has gotten to him?

"Of course you're happy to go." Kuroo scoffs, and looks around for a waiter. "You're always happy when you're with him. Even when you fight, there's this-" He raises his hand and the waitress nods, starts coming their way. Kuroo turns back to him, his finishing blow, "-joy. Because you have him to fight with."

Kuroo's the one who knows him best. Kuroo's his other half, when it comes down to it. Kuroo's something long-lost, something long-found.  _ Something new, something old- _ Kuroo's Kenma's good luck charm. Kuroo's his protection, Kuroo's the one to fall back on. Kuroo's his soulmate, the one he was supposed to meet, all along.

Shouyou doesn't complete him. Shouyou complements him, makes him better, makes him work. Without Shouyou, he wouldn't be incomplete, just empty. Being without Kuroo is a reality he can't even picture.

"You'll come and visit me," Kenma says, Kuroo's glass once again full, the waitress smiling at someone at another table. "I think you'll like it- Brazil. If even I did, everyone can."

"I can't believe I'm going from a friend to a subscriber. I want my money back."

"You're free to go," Kenma raises an eyebrow, looks at him with disdain and more love than one should be able to feel. Looks at him with years of giving him the ball, giving him the right to anything, to his life.

Kuroo smiles. "And, scene."

São Paulo's nothing like Rio- And yet, São Paulo's still Brazil.

São Paulo reminds him of Tokyo in more ways than he can count. São Paulo's huge, endless cars, endless neighbourhoods, streets and avenues that reach far and wide and buildings that go up faceless, sky-high, a jungle of concrete like any other, like so many others. He can mix into the crowd, can blend in. He’s just another head, just another face, just another body, because no one stands out in this city, no one looks like they don’t belong. Kenma feels like he’s seeing the whole world, he feels like he’s seeing everything at once.

He watches Shouyou play, one time during practice, watches him mingle with his teammates and laugh and joke around like he always does, always has. At moments like this, looking from the outside, watching, Kenma can’t get it out of his head that Shouyou’s the same boy he’s always been, and also so impossibly new. Shouyou’s Karasuno’s #10, he’s the boy with the cross-court sprint and the glint in his eyes, he’s half of the monster duo, he’s the spiker of the freak quick. Shouyou’s the Black Jackals’ #21, was, for so long, in his element beside Bokuto’s loud laughs and wide stances, beside Barnes and Miya, beside players just as strong as him and just as unwilling to back down. Shouyou’s Asas São Paulo’s #21, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, new and unaccustomed to the team and their way of playing but so ready to shine, so excited to shine. Shouyou’s got a volleyball for a heart, Kenma sometimes thinks, big and sturdy and passionate. Shouyou might miss a receive here, might nearly stumble into a teammate before they’ve had time to plan out plays, but he jumps, he soars, flies, and Kenma smiles, familiar.

Shouyou shines, the sun and a bit more. Kenma can see his reflex on his ring finger.

Kenma finds his way in the city, too. All of its differences, compared to Rio, make it easier to get used to, make the transition smoother. The subway system, the crowds, the buildings, the neighbourhoods, a lot of what reminds him of Tokyo, make him nostalgic and homesick at the same time they make him comfortable, make him fit right in. He explores the city a bit while Shouyou's practising, finds out that there's an entire neighbourhood where so many of the people speak Japanese, where people can understand him without the need for key sentences in Portuguese or a lot of stressful English. He spends mornings and afternoons in it, in Liberdade, visiting little shops and walking around, taking pictures, reminiscing. He takes pictures and sends them to Shouyou, just like always happened the other way around, takes pictures and sends them to Kuroo, to his mom, who say – respectively – that they wish they were there and that the city looks so nice, so alive.

São Paulo is alive, that's true. São Paulo takes him in, eats him up. It's gentle, too, waiting for him to warm up, waiting for him to get used to all of it. He learns the language the hard way, tries his hand at Duolingo and soft, encouraging hours with Shouyou and a notebook, but mostly learns through getting lost and needing help, through trying new words, hearing new words, through befriending the owner of a tiny grocery store in Liberdade who reminds him so much of his grandmother.

He works, he makes friends. Bouncing Ball meetings are just the same online, and Shouyou likes to joke that he's even more of a CEO now, a looming presence on a screen, too untouchable, too inhuman. Kenma usually pouts at that, argues that there's no way he looks untouchable with eternal bags under his eyes, with his hair too long and haphazardly put up into a bun or a ponytail, with his assortment of black and grey hoodies that he could maybe, at some point, tell apart. He's still young, he's just young.

Streaming is easy, here, and he even tries to get himself a bit into the community; he finds that São Paulo is already the city to be in, for a digital career, which should have been obvious from the get-go. He finds this little group of streamers that welcome him in, reassuring words in English and even cheers in Portuguese. They're a wild bunch, a sweet bunch, and at the same time remind him of being a teenager, remind him of being in a team, and also are so much new information, so overwhelming. Some of them stand out; there's a girl with ever-changing hair colours and colourful hand tattoos, a boy with blue-black-purple curls and one with blue eyes and a sharp brain. One of them is young and charismatic, reminds him of grins and smirks from the other side of the net, and one of them has a big smile and a warm voice, a bit of a beard making him look scruffy but approachable, like some sort of reassuring, caring guy, like the senpai Kuroo was always too sly to fulfill the role of. They're all so peculiar, so special, so different in their own ways but quick to embrace Kenma, to make him fit in, that it's almost a weight off his chest.

"I can't believe you're making friends quicker than I am," Shouyou says, his arm stretched out and waiting for Kenma to crawl into his cuddle. Kenma does, pulls the covers over the both of them, throws one leg over one of Shouyou's. He fits his head right underneath his chin, feels his chest rising and falling, his breath so slow, so calm.

"You've got an entire team." Kenma's just come back from a particularly talkative stream, which is part of the reason he's left so early; he's tired. He's not yet close enough friends with all of the gang to spend time with them without feeling drained, he's never been close enough friends with any large group of people to just be together and hang out indefinitely without it taking a toll on him- It's even worse while gaming, while streaming, having to keep up an interaction with the chat and pay attention to the game and also talk to his friends, make conversation, even if most times he can't fish out a single word from their jabs at each other, from their puns in a language he barely knows the basics of (he's getting better, though, truly. He went to the drugstore the other day and communicated perfectly with the attendant, understood every word, even if she was being especially kind to him after noticing his accent).

"Just because they're my teammates doesn't mean they'll immediately be my friends."

"But it makes it easier. You've hung out with them a lot already, you've gone out to eat, to drink. And you can communicate with them, most of all."

"You can communicate with your friends, too. You'll get there," Shouyou kisses the top of his head, his tone a bit sad, a bit comforting.

"Still. You have it easier."

"Don't we both have it hard?" Shouyou sighs, pulls Kenma a little tighter. God, Kenma doesn't mind. "We're both getting here out of nowhere, immigrants, we don't know anyone, we're bad at the language-"

"You are not bad at the language. And you know people- Even if they're in Rio, you have someone to talk to. To relate to."

"And I have you," Shouyou says, quiet, after a silent beat passes. After a second passes and the weight of Kenma's loneliness stays in the air. "And you have me. We'll get through it."

"Obviously."

Shouyou's voice is about smiles. Shouyou's voice is golden syrup, liquid sunlight. Shouyou's voice is this feeling in Kenma's chest, like butterflies, like bumblebees, like missing something he's always, always had-

"Then don't sound so glum about it. I'm not leaving your side, am I? I'll help you with anything. We'll get through anything. Anywhere."

Eight, nine years' worth of a long distance relationship. A few months in Tokyo, a few months now here. God, it's been so long, they've grown up, they've evolved. Shouyou, certainly, but Kenma too. He doesn't even need his butterfly compass anymore, his guide to knowing where he'll find Hinata Shouyou and how he'll stay put with all these feelings punching their way out of his chest, piercing his ribcage, bursting through his lungs. He throws all of that away, exchanges it for the reassurance of knowing he'll always, always, always have Shouyou right here, to touch and kiss and love and hold. He'll always have Shouyou at an arm's reach, be it on his phone or in his arms.

Teenage relationships aren't supposed to go anywhere, high school sweethearts are one out of a million, people don't stay in love, they fall out of love, long distance relationships don't work, people find someone else, they cheat and lie and grow apart-

"Don't think too hard," Shouyou reaches up, runs his thumb down Kenma's nose and smoothens the crease between his brows. It's such a Shouyou thing to do, a sweet little gesture. Nothing more to it than love, than caring. "Don't stress yourself too much. Talk to me, okay? After good and bad."

Kenma tangles himself in transmission lines, cuts them up, pulls them down. He stands on top of the train, immune to the wind, more powerful than nature. He reaches for a beehive in his own personal rainforest, in his tropical dream of a chest, digs out honey with his fingers, pulls apart honeycombs, crushes the wax underneath his feet. He tastes sweet and bright and sticky, tastes years of being in love and being together. He tastes the two weeks in Rio that changed it all, tastes their first meeting and  _ whatcha' doing _ , tastes having fun playing volleyball and tastes being on his phone to talk to someone, instead of avoiding talking to other someones, in real life. It's all there. It's always been there, all the memories and the feelings kept safe in his heart, like muscle memory, like a part of his subconscious, like instinct, like reflex. He can find everything, he finds the very first  _ good morning, Kenma _ from Brazil, and the way that started its own legacy, he finds romeo and juliet and finds Shouyou's playlist of Brazilian music, slow and fast and something in between, finds Shouyou's graduation and his own, finds the day Shouyou announced he'd be going to Brazil and the day he invited Kenma to come with him, finds their engagement (Kenma wonders, to this day, when he bought the ring, where he got the money. He showed up at home, he was supposed to be in practice, his face was so red, he looked so worried. Kenma didn't even have the time to ask. Kenma stood up from his chair, stopped working. Shouyou fell to his knees; first Kenma worried, ran to him, then Shouyou propped one knee up. _ I told you I'd make you feel something, and God, Kenma, I hope I did- _ ) and their first kiss.

The love of his life, his high school sweetheart. Not his other half, but his better self. Everything he could never be, everything he couldn't help but love. Someone he'd never even dreamed of, he'd never dreamed of anyone in the first place, but the only person he could wish for. Shouyou, Shouyou, Shouyou-

"Hey, are you listening? Did you fall asleep?"

"I'm awake," Kenma whispers, but he might've slept for a few seconds there, dozed off. Shouyou's warm, and comfortable. Kenma can get himself lost in so many thoughts, lost in so much, just having Shouyou around. "Just thinking."

"Kenma…” He sounds like a pout, and Kenma feels even more comfortable. “About?"

"I only think about you," Kenma says, takes a deep breath. His eyes are closed, and he feels his breaths evening out. He feels Shouyou's heartbeat, strong, steady, underneath his cheek and underneath his palm. "All the time. Since high school."

"We match," Shouyou says, his voice so wonderful, his voice always everything Kenma's ever needed. God, he's so cute, he's always been- Shouyou's the same boy he's always been, Shouyou's changed and stayed the same. Shouyou reaches up and intertwines their hands, ring to ring, and holds them both up to his chest, over his heart. If Kenma wasn't so sleepy, he'd think of this, too, think of all that it meant and could mean, think of all that it symbolises.

"Haven't we always?"

"Hm?"

"Matched..." Kenma's sleepy, so he barely opens his mouth. He slurs his words, tries his best. Shouyou'll understand, he always has. Shouyou could kiss him, right now, and maybe save him all the trouble. "We've always been... A good match. A good fit. Didn't we get along, from the very first moment?"

"Well, we did, but-"

"No buts," Kenma says, and he feels himself trailing off. "No need for buts, anymore. No holding back."

No need for transmission lines, and train rides, and buts. No need for second guessing, or self-doubting, or those wicked glances they'd give each other from the other side of the court – saying, with so many words and also none,  _ I'll crush you, I'll win _ , and  _ I love you, I love you, I love you.  _ They'll fight, with the joy of having each other to fight with. They'll live, immersed in honey, living life with two spoonfuls of sugar, living a life of half-kisses and constellation maps, impossibly familiar, impossibly home.

Shouyou speaks with a smile, holding Kenma home, tight. Safe, familiar, constant. "Good night, Kenma."

"Good morning..."

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/kenhinabot)
> 
> thank you for reading this absolute monster. this fic wrecked me through writing and editing and posting, so i hope you liked it! title is from 5 seconds of summer's wherever you are, but it nearly was titled so many other things, and mostly referred to (in my brain) as kenma in brazil fic.  
> if you left a comment, a kudo, or a bookmark, please know that i love you forever and ever. if you want, you can also come to talk to me on twitter, because kenhina is my weakness and i Always want to talk about them


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